Poetry
The Mussel Shell
On the beach, the belly of an empty mussel
reveals a map of the universe—
great plumes of interstellar dust,
frozen comets with sweeping cerulean tails,
trillions of stars paint-splattered across an endless dark,
planets of ice and fire and terracotta dust,
clouds of polychromatic gas spilling out of nursing nebulae.
It washes gently away,
along with all the others.
—Marianne Hoffard
So This Is The Middle Kingdom
After Ted Kooser’s “So This Is Nebraska”
Every hillside preens in a carpet
of plum blossom, peonies, tulips,
arranging and rearranging blooms
to best complement its contours.
Every river is a poet, inscribing
major works on rockface and gorge,
writing lesser verse on reeds,
reciting in the running water rush.
So this is the Middle Kingdom.
Eternal. Ruled over by dragons.
You came here in your youth
after a series of misadventures.
You never tried, will never try
to leave. Why would you go?
Before you knew only temples
built to honor dragon lords.
Now you see their glory direct:
power and dance and lithe beauty,
pearls clasped under their chins.
How they shape cloud and wind.
Like the rivers, like the hills,
you refuse the mortal world,
refuse family for the merest
passing glance from a dragon.
—Mary Soon Lee